


Don't Drink the Punch

by kakaitalover



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Dubious Consent, Harry Freaked Out by Cuddling and Emotional Displays, M/M, Marcone on E, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakaitalover/pseuds/kakaitalover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the free food just isn't worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Drink the Punch

I don't know if you've ever had a lapful of drugged, horny, _clingy_ mafia boss at any of the parties you go to, but I can tell you without a drop of uncertainty that it is damned distracting. I don't know why Marcone decided _I_ was the best choice for cuddle-bunny-slash-humping-post when my incubus half-brother Thomas was seated at the same table as us, but I can only assume it had something to do with the solid wall of men and women in his way and my own unfortunate proximity.  
This, I swore, was the last time I'd ever let a grateful client talk me into attending her daughter's bat-mitzvah. If I'd had any idea daddy-dearest had mob affiliations I would have said no point-blank, no matter how many heartfelt thanks and teary pleas and promises of free food the returned girl's mother plied me with. Sadly, I was unaware of this fact until my previously mentioned plus-one and I arrived and were seated next to, you guessed it, Gentleman Johnny Marcone, head of the Chicago Outfit and bane of my existence, and his bodyguard.

Thank goodness I'd stuck to bottles of coke. Although, on the other hand, it really might be preferable to not be sober just now. When I found the person who had spiked the punch with what seemed to be Ecstasy I was going to make them _pay_ – assuming Hendricks didn't beat me to it. He probably would, too, since he was free to wander around looking for said miscreant while I was left fending off the advances of a very determined snuggler. With a hard-on.

Look, it's not like we didn't try to get him off. Of me, I mean. Off _of me._ Jeez. But it was like trying to peel away Popeye the Human Octopus - and when we finally did manage to make some headway regarding the removal of his body from my personage, he started to cry. I kid you not. John Marcone, the man who'd battled fallen angels and fought uberghouls and endured torture with an equanimity and composure that would make the stoics of yore weep with envy, started crying like a little boy whose teddy bear had just been ripped from his hands. It was terrifying.

Hendricks apparently agreed, since he abruptly shoved Marcone back into my lap, muttered dire warnings of what would happen to me if I allowed harm to come to the – now snuffling – man, and took off to find the guilty party. I myself was too horrified to do more than twitch when a wet cheek pressed into my neck, numbly pat the shuddering back under my hand, and try not to listen to the burbling sobs about how I never let him take care of me, and I didn't like him, even when he was _really nice,_ and I was just stubborn and mean and _why didn't I like him?_ Somehow, impossibly, it got even worse when he (finally, _finally_ ) calmed down and started petting me instead just clinging, and the murmurs in my ear shifted to how much he liked me, because I was funny and brave and not scared of him like most people were, and I was good and fierce and loyal and honorable but nearly as ruthless as him when I was protecting people, and I did _magic,_ like for real, and also I looked really good in leather, but I looked even better in a tux, and I smelled really, really yummy... I yelped when he actually licked my neck and began trying to dislodge him again, but he rode it out and started rubbing his cheek on my stubble and sniffing my hair instead, humming happily to himself as he obsessively stroked the silk tie Thomas had insisted I borrow. At least he wasn't talking anymore.

All I could think, as John started rocking into my hip, was that the person responsible for this mess had better be caught and present by the time Marcone sobered up, because while it would be awkward that I'd witnessed this anyway, I was so dead if he came to his senses and I was the only potential target around. Marcone is not generally one for taking his temper out on someone who isn't at fault for whatever has angered him, but there's nothing quite like publicly humiliating yourself – especially in front of someone you, apparently, really, really like and want to impress – to make you lose perspective a little bit.

Little did I know my real problems wouldn't begin until I got home (alive, yay!) and Bob cheerfully asked me if I was getting hitched and whose aura was snuggling up to my soul like a lost, lonely kitten. I just about gave myself a concussion slamming my head into my work table. Just a couple times, nothing excessive. Then the testing began. Go figure I'd get my White Court protection renewed by somebody I couldn't stand. Really, I couldn't. Even if maybe he did make kind of adorable cooing noises when he was approaching completion, and looked weirdly sweet and almost shy in the afterglow. People don't act normal during – or after – sex. Or when they're drugged. He was still the same smug, ruthless, annoyingly suave criminal scumbag I'd always hated, and knowing he loved me didn't change anything.

It didn't.

But I made him a drug-detecting talisman and bought him some Burger King anyway.


End file.
